


Impatiently, for the Lord

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 00:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12519192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: Memory is all we have.





	Impatiently, for the Lord

**Author's Note:**

> For Jess and Ash, set post-Spiderman 2, ignoring the third film. Title taken from a U2 song.

  
She remembers.

She remembers nights when the night sweltered with so much heat that the asphalt seemed to sweat and shimmer, and in the day it steamed. She remembers clambering up to her bedroom and resting on the window frame, precariously perched as she looked up at the sky, and all the stars that twinkled and shone above her, showing her the heights to which she could aspire and not reach.

She remembers the yelling from below, the screaming and shouting and crashed crockery, ironically, that quietened only when her mother got sicker and her father got drunker.

She remembers how Harry was like, how he perused her, wooed her, how he was insecure and afraid and just a little bit wanting to have her because Peter did not. She remember John, who was brave and bold and every inch the American hero. How he held her, how he looked at her, how he held her up to standards she could not reached, and made her into the poor girl gone good.

She remembers where she was born, where she grew up. She remembers her father yelling at her as she ran out the house and into the yard, calling her trash, white trash always, and the way Peter looked at her with kindness and pity and love and did not dispute it.

She’s successful now, she’s famous and a little bit wealthy, but she always remembers where she came from and what she is. She and Peter live in a very modest flat in the Village that isn’t completely out of the league of two young people, and MJ takes care of all the money she has to make sure it stays theirs.

She folds the wedding dress neatly away, taking a few moments to smooth over the fabric with the palm of her hand, before she takes the ring John gave her from her pocket, places it in a case and tucks it along side. It was a nice dream, like those times staring up at the sky, but she couldn’t be John’s princess any more than she could be Harry’s trophy. Peter’s lied to her, stripped her of reason and refused her right, but she expects that. From a home of loss and retribution, that feels just a little bit more real to her, something she can cope with.

She’ll send the dress back in a few days, with the ring, and another, proper letter of apology. This could be a fairytale, but it’s up to her to make it this time, write her own story.

MJ has a photo shoot for Vogue she has to be at in five hours, but in the meantime she needs to clean the toilet, and so she straightens up, stretches a little, and goes to, click click clacking against the tiled floor in her Dolce Gabbana heels, because even white trash can look up at the sky and dream of a better tomorrow.

*

He remembers.

There’s not a day that doesn’t go by when he doesn’t remember. In the passing of the streetscape, the reflection in a window, the image in the glass, the sound of his voice at a press conference for OsCorp relayed and repeated time and time and time again until he cannot stand it, and will stand it, because he has to and this is what he deserves.

Whenever he considers himself, he sees petulance and weakness, brashness and immaturity – all the things his father chided him for and predicted he would be, all the things he could not escape and has become. He drinks too much to late at night, and he thinks of Peter.

He remembers Peter, he remembers school, he remembers a time when his father when simply an absent tyrant, not a victim, not a villain, not a father whose fate he must avenge and whose fate was exactly what he deserved.

He remembers when things were easy, when he went to school without expectation or pretension or stupid uniform and there wasn’t anywhere more he could fall and how he liked it that way. He remembers Peter, dorky, quiet, timid Peter, who never lashed out, never spoke up, never dared, until the one day he did and everything changed.

He remembers the why and the how of that change, and curses himself for being so stupid, and not seeing what should have been obvious. It doesn’t matter that no-one else saw it; it matters that he should have seen it, cause he knew Peter better than anyone, and still underestimated him like everyone else and this is the result.

Even in his memories, Harry sets the standards too high; even in his memories he proves to be a disappointment.

He remembers asking MJ out, the way she smiled, the way she shone and sparkled and the way they fit together. He remembers the brief flash of pain on Peter’s face, the subsequent withdrawal, the eventual retreat, because that’s what Peter does. He hides; behind his glasses or under a mask where no-one can touch him, no-one can make him feel, no-one can rob him of duty and responsibility and turn him into a simple human being.

He remembers that Peter likes to play nice, that Peter likes to be normal, figures that Peter likes to be Spiderman because Spiderman is neither nice nor normal, and Peter gets to do whatever the fuck he wants.

He remembers a glorious summer afternoon before his father died; stretched out on Peter’s bed while Peter did his science homework (and Harry peeked over and stole all the answers.) Peter knew he was looking of course, small grin on his face, occasional sly look, and Harry kept looking, kept cheating, seeing how obvious and blatant he could get before Peter would make it an issue, because Harry existed to push people’s boundaries and Peter existed to get pushed. He remembers finally grabbing Peter’s folder in both hands, and springing onto the bed as Peter swung at him with a open hand to slap upside his head, and missed, and ending up springing onto the bed with him, the springs squeaking, the floor giving an uncertain creak beneath them and neither caring.

He remembers wrestling, and tussling, and tumbling onto the bed, the folder all but forgotten, and Peter just being a little too slow in his reactions, a little too sloppy to be real, and that small, wicked grin on his face that let Harry know he was doing it, that he wanted to be caught and pinned to the bed, that he wanted Harry to catch and pin him. He remembers a long, slow pause between them, and Harry pressing his lips to Peter’s mouth like it was a sacrament and the way Peter’s tongue snaked out to tease his lower lip and let him know that everything was fine, everything was cool, and the kisses getting deeper, and stronger, and sloppier, and giggling and touching and a afternoon that shone with sunlight and hope that made Harry’s head swim like he’d drunk too much wine, and the afternoon seemed to stretch out for days.

He remembers the way Peter squirmed when he touched him, when he teased him with fingers and lips and tongue, asked him where Peter had been working out, all new found muscles and firm skin, and the way Peter refused to answer and giggle some more. He remembers threatening to stop unless Peter told him, and the dark knowledge and wry humour that glittered in Peter’s eyes as they both knew that was an empty threat, and that knowledge didn’t fade no matter how many times Harry pushed him (Spiderman let him push him) hard against the sheets and kissed him (Spiderman watched and didn’t put up a struggle) until he moaned.

He remembers the way Peter panted against him, keening, face buried in his neck as Harry slid a hand into his trousers and jerked him off, spit-slick and rough, and when it was all over, and they were both heaving with the afterglow, Harry wiping his hand clean with a tissue, Peter’s breathing slowed, softened, and he glanced up at Harry.

“You know I still like MJ, right?”

Harry loses himself in memory because the past is the only thing he has.

*

Peter remembers.

MJ is out in the kitchen; he can hear every step she takes, every rustle of her dress, every breath she makes. It is a voyeur’s dream and a pornographer’s nightmare; there is so much information that it all becomes the same; there is no distinction, no mystique. The erotic is reduced to the everyday, the banal.

She’s cleaning, and she likes to clean, and he indulges her likes, so he lets her. He pulls on a shirt, tucks it into his slacks, and does up his belt, facing the mirror. He looks presentable, nice middle class boy, college student and occasional reporter who still gets his name mentioned in the gossip columns as the boy who stole Mary-Jane Watson from the altar, who broke Captain Jameson’s heart and reduced America’s newest sweetheart to woman who puts domestic happiness in front of her career.

He shrugs, peels back the collar, does up his tie. They don’t know her like he does, and the Daily Bugle still takes his photos; that’s all that matters, right? The illusion of respectability, the pretense of normality, because he has a mission and he has a quest and that’s what counts.

He hears the creak of footsteps in front of the door, the subtle pause as someone stops to fix their hairs and smooth their jacket; he recognises the footfall, and it doesn’t make him pause and doesn’t make him smile – it is what it is and nothing more.

There’s a knock, and he can tell – he can tell exactly how long it will take MJ to straighten up from the kitchen floor and walk smartly across and out and open up the door, bright smile on her face. “Hi, Harry!” she beams, like the sun comes out, and takes the flowers Harry’s been holding awkwardly in one hand, ushering him in and closing the door behind him.

“Peter, Harry’s here,” she calls out, putting on her best smile and her best face and not caring whether they’re real or not because MJ is an actress and believes her own lies. “He brought us flowers for the housewarming.”

“And a present,” Harry says smoothly, handing her a box wrapped in ribbon. It’s long and has a certain heft, and when MJ opens it, it’s a ceremonial dagger on a stand. Peter doesn’t need to look up at Harry to know that Harry is looking at him, to know what kind of message Harry is sending; his focus is all on MJ, and the dagger in her hand.

“How nice!” MJ exclaims, and tips the box so she can get it out, placing it on the table and looking at it proudly, like it’s something she’s always wanted. He can hear the little stress patterns in her voice that lets him know she’s lying, but she doesn’t know, she doesn’t, and he does.

He curls an arm around MJ’s waist and smiles at Harry because he can. Harry doesn’t look too good, broody and sullen, face slack and sunken and pale, with just a faint whiff of liquor that only Peter can smell.

He remembers the hot, wet heat of Harry’s mouth against his, of sunshine that ran like rain against the skin, the tight surround and breathy expanse of MJ’s body, the way she drew in a moan when he ran a finger between her legs to tease her right there.

This is his girlfriend, his passion, his hope when he cannot afford it. That is his lover, his best friend, his mistakes all bound up in one neat package. He remembers everything, and discards it all; he has no time for memories. He’s hurt them before and he’ll hurt them again; it’s what he does, and what he needs to do. His feelings, his concern, his care, they do not matter. All he has is a life to lead, and the lives he must save – the details aren’t important.

This is his blessing, this is his curse: he is Spiderman.

All he can worry about is the now. The memories aren't important.   



End file.
